Little Boy Blue
by BlackAvalon89
Summary: The actions of our past are what have led us to this point. Sometimes we don't see the trail for what it is until we look over our shoulders and realize just what was left in our wake.


**I.**

"Run," she says. "Hide yourself, Kolyat."

I don't know it now, but those are the last words I will ever hear from her. At least the last ones directed at me. What can I do but obey? I'm eight years old, when my mother tells me to do something I better damn well do it or face the consequences.

And oh, what consequences they could have been.

I still don't know whether it was common sense or some sick sort of inherited instinct, but my first thought is to head for the ventilation shafts. I can barely reach the grating that is so high up on my wall. Even standing on top of the storage unit my parents had bought to keep my things in it seems just out of my reach, but somehow I manage. My small hands wiggle it loose enough to allow passage and I hoist myself in.

There isn't really anywhere I can go. It's too dark to properly see, even after my eyes adjust to the drastic change in lighting, and around the first corner I found a drop that seems endless. I drop a shoe down it and I still swear to this day I never heard it hit the bottom.

Maybe I missed it because I'm too preoccupied with what I _can_ hear.

To this day I wish I could forget, but that's not really what my kind is built for I guess.

* * *

**II.**

I know it's been weeks since it happened, but even with the benefit of perfect memory it still seems like it hasn't even been a day.

The time that has elapsed in between then and now is all a blur in my memory. Picture-perfect moments, singular and frozen in time but with all that's happened there is no concept of timing attached to them. They play like a broken record in my head, so vivid, endless and unrelenting. Mother, darkness, cold metal, noises so loud that everything shakes beneath my fingers, then there's finally silence, but it isn't the world shaking anymore; it's _me_. Alone in quiet so loud in its own way, heavy on the air and pressing in from all sides, I reemerge into the wreckage of the place I once called 'home'... _**No**_. I can't think about it, I can't lose myself to it again.

Not here.

The time that has passed is written on each and every one of their faces as I walk past them to my seat at the back. _I_ may not be able to remember how many days have gone by, but they can with absolute and perfect clarity. As much is etched into their harsh expressions as my eyes dart between each cold face, their own emotions impossible to gauge. Their gazes are heavy on me in an entirely different way than my thoughts, but it's still enough to almost push me to the brink of solipsism. I'm still young, and my mind is weak.

I definitely can't fight off the demons of my memory forever, and not even for very long. A slide in my instructor's presentation is what finally does me in.

_Red. Too much red._

It suddenly goes from being just a picture on a holographic interface to my mother's blood carelessly splashed over the walls of my parent's bedroom like some sick abstract fantasy, and I'm in the moment I have wished with every fiber of my being to leave behind again. My father hunched over her broken body, cradling her head in his lap and rocking back and forth as though it's the only thing that will keep his sanity from disappearing entirely. The heart wrenching sounds of mourning fill the air, echoing in the small space. A symphony of sorrow, and I don't realize until he's turned around and our eyes meet that the ever increasing sounds aren't coming from him.

_They're coming from me._

When I return to my senses I'm on the floor, screaming, and there are people standing around me with equal expressions of terror, concern, and outright disgust on their faces. Only a few ask me if I'm okay, but none of them sincerely care what my answer is. They're just platitudes, common courtesies; they don't actually mean any of it. They probably heard what happened but they'll never understand.

Not really.

I spend the rest of the day till lunch staring at a blank wall, trying not to think of anything. I don't think my instructor minded; he was probably terrified of me having a repeat memory lapse. During the break I sit alone; I can't even be bothered to get up from my chair to get something to eat. I'm not hungry.

My mind starts thinking about how many days it will take of starving myself to do the job when a tray of food appears in front of me attached to a small, pale hand. I look up and meet her eyes for a moment before I shove the tray away and tell her to go to hell.

She smiles and places it in front of me again.

"Eat. Starving yourself isn't good for your health."

* * *

**III.**

School nights are always boring. Nothing to do, and even if there is my aunt and uncle that I live with won't even let their own children out past a certain time, let alone me. As if they actually cared about me. The room I resided in was proof enough of the fact that they cared as little as they could get away with; small and cramped, with hardly enough room for a bed let alone any other personal effects. All their own children had rooms at least twice the size, but I guess that's the inherent punishment you get when your father is the bastard who caused their beloved sister to be murdered.

I _did_ get a window though, a luxury only one of the other children was afforded. Perhaps that was their biggest mistake, because no matter what cruel fate was promised me should I disobey their idiotic rules I never let their threats, idle or not so much so, stop me. They could try and keep me contained, but it never worked. That small square of glass was my way out to the world beyond and the only place I felt alive anymore.

A rattle at the pane lets me know that I'm not going to be bored much longer. Tonight is apparently going to be an interesting one.

A few minutes and a short climb later and I'm free and amongst my 'friends,' if that's even the correct term for them. I wouldn't trust them even as far as I can throw them but they tolerate my presence, which is more than I can say for pretty much everyone else in my life at this point. They don't know about my family or what happened, and if they do they really don't care enough to mention, remember, or even bother with it.

That's what I seek. A way out, an escape from the sob story tragedy that my life turned into eight years ago. And they let me have it no questions asked.

The night starts out as simple as any other; the rebellious group of teenage boys wandering the back alleys late at night. Out way past curfew and raising hell much to the displeasure of those whose sleep we disrupted, and then running from the authorities when they tried to track us down. Technology may have become increasingly advanced over the past centuries, but paint still allowed for us to scrawl our own form of expression across the walls we left in our wake. Rejection of the system because it had rejected us. We found camaraderie in the simple fact that we were all outcasts who had no idea what we were going to attempt to start doing with our lives in a few short years when our primary education was all said and done and we were on the way to becoming actual adults.

Such was our creed and a unified toast that was definitely worthy of drinking to. The night always took a turn for the more interesting when one of the older boys would break out the booze, usually resulting in one or more detentions, if not an arrest. I'd always been lucky so far, and when I came home with the bitter aftertaste on my tongue and hanging from my breath I knew I'd get that look from my aunt. She never did had the nerve to actually say something against it.

Perks of being the unwanted burden, I guess.

This night is different though, and it takes a remarkably quick turn for the decidedly worse when someone elects that it seems like a good idea to break out the hallex. They pass the bottle around and when it comes to me I pour my share into my palm, not quite sure what to think of the new turn of events. We'd dabbled in drug use before, but never anything quite so strong on a night I'd been present. I contemplate the potential outcomes for a moment, toying with the tiny red pills in my palm and watching as they tumble about.

"You wimping out on us, Krios?"

Why they insist on calling me by my father's name, I'll never understand.

"Like _hell_ I am."

I'm too drunk to actually think straight so down they go, and with them I lose all concept of memory and coherent thought.

The next hour is a blur, the time after that a haze. The next thing I know it's after nightfall the next day, and I'm waking up in an alley alone. I have no idea where I've been, or more importantly where I _haven't_ been. There's nothing better to do and the ache in my back makes the sound of my own bed sound like the best idea in the world, so I make the trek home to my aunt and uncle's apartment.

There's a moment of panic when I search my pockets, terrified that I might have lost my entry card, but I find it and slip inside as quickly and quietly as possible. My stomach growls in protest as I pass the kitchen but I'm too exhausted to even think about food, instead letting my feet lead me straight toward my room.

I make it about three steps through the common room before I hear the pointedly audible sound of someone clearing their throat and the reverberations of a disapproving croon. I can't help but freeze for a moment, turning slowly to face the source of the noise once my muscles are willing to respond again.

_Oh __**here**__ we go._

"And where exactly have you been?" my aunt addresses me calmly and quietly, and I can hear and feel the displeasure radiating off her like the heat of the sun.

I can't help but scoff. "Like you actually care."

"I _see_." She smooths her hands over her clothes, ignoring my antagonistic jab entirely. She's always so patient with me, she deserves better than what I offer in return but I can't be bothered to give a damn for how I'm treated the majority of the time. "You're far too much like him you know."

"... like _who_?" I don't actually have to ask who she means, I already know and I don't like it.

"Your father." The disappointment is palpable in her tone, and it only angers me further than the accusation alone.

"_No_. I'm nothing like that bastard," I mutter in reply, keeping my voice calm and even. I don't give her another chance to respond. My rage shows in my movements as I stalk out of the room and down the hall to the comfort of my bed.

A comfort that is rudely interrupted in the morning by punishment I had rightfully earned. My uncle didn't throw me out because I was Irikah's only child, but he beat every single one of my transgressions into me because I was Thane's son.

Try as he might, it made no difference.

I still didn't care, and I never would.

* * *

**IV.**

It rained the day I heard the news.

It always rains on Kahje, but I like to think the rain pounded down especially hard that day. Maybe it was just that I actually took notice of the never-ending torrential downpour for the first time in nearly a decade. Maybe I just wanted to hit everything in sight with every fiber of my being but didn't have the luxury, so I wanted the weather to unleash my and anguish in my stead.

Maybe I just wanted someone else to notice that she was gone, even if the only other person was the Goddess of the skies.

None of them talked about it. No one even did a double take at the seat she should have been occupying, hands politely folded in her lap and face alight with warmth and kindness just as it had been since we were children. She should have been sitting there, flashing that same smile that she had given me the first time we met when neither of us had known just how much I'd needed it. She was sick, she always had been, and was constantly in and out of class as a result. It wasn't something strange; she would go missing from class for a few days before returning, all apologies and cheer.

Her chair had been empty for over a week now and _no one_ cared. No one except me.

I always have the worst kind of luck. Through my own stupidity I hadn't even been present to notice her absence this time. My only friend in the entire world since my life had up and gone to hell and I didn't even realize she was missing. I'd let her down just like this so many times before, but the difference was that this time I'd never get the chance to make up for it.

By the time I actually noticed she wasn't there, it was too late. She was never coming back to class this time, and I was the only one who cared.

I never made a habit of going straight home, but today I choose to take a right instead of a left. For the first time in years, I shove my hands deep into my pockets and willingly turn away from the idiotic path I've been walking for so long of my own volition a head for the edge of the city instead of the shadows at its heart. The choice is for her, if for nothing else. It definitely isn't for any sake of my own.

It's the least I can do.

With my head bowed I let my feet carry me where I know I need to go and the path they chart is one they know all too well. I _need_ to see the ocean. All I want is to watch the sky tear itself in two and pour out all it has in her memory.

Standing out in the rain isn't the brightest idea I've ever had, but it's what I want to do. It brings the most desolate kind of comfort; the warm water rolling over my skin reminds me of my mother and better days long gone. Repressed memories bubble to the surface and I find myself embracing them for the first time in what feels like forever. My ears ring with the echoes of all that I had lost in my life, as short as it was. A cacophony of 'could have been's that never would be.

Even though the rivulets flowing down my face would provide camouflage against prying eyes, I don't cry. I _can't_. I lost the ability to do so long ago when I stopped caring about what would come next for me. Life had never had anything to offer me, and this newest development is just further confirmation of that fact.

That I was even born at all is the galaxy's sickest joke.

It's dark outside when I eventually turn and head home, but that's nothing new or unexpected. There's no unhappy welcoming party waiting for me when I slip quietly through the door; my aunt and uncle gave up on attempting to police my behavior when they finally realized that I'd never change. My clothes are still soaking, leaving a trail of water in my wake, but it doesn't bother me. The chill they bring by being slicked up against my skin mimics the icy cold that has settled over my soul.

It _should_ hurt, but every single part of me is far too numb to feel any more pain.

There's a box on my bed, something strange enough that it should catch my attention and guide my eyes to find the familiar handwriting that is scrawled across its top. It's addressed to me by someone I haven't seen or had a kind thought about since my childhood. A name that should trigger my mind to delve into more memories I've long locked away.

I shove it indiscriminately onto the floor as I lie down, mentally grumbling to myself that I'll figure out what the hell it is in the morning. Whatever it is, it can wait.

But what do I actually know? Who would really think that such an unassuming object could change my life so drastically?

* * *

**V.**

I don't know what I'm doing here, light-years from the only place I'd ever called home.

There's a gun in my hand, a name in my omni-tool, and a lump sum of credits promised to me should I get the job done. Those three things are all I have, everything else I abandoned when I left Kahje for good. The only things from before that I retain are my memories.

Was this what he and mother had called _'business_?_'_ Is this what he actually did all those years, all those times when he was away? I read the files over and over again, even though every detail of them was already embedded in my brain for perfect recall. Even then, the mere concept of such an idea was still suspended in so much disbelief. I knew my father had been a decommissioned assassin under a contract of the Compact for the hanar Primacy, but that he would willingly take so many lives after he had been released from his servitude was entirely unfathomable to me.

It didn't make _sense_. This couldn't have been him, not the same man from my memories. My aunts and uncles had blamed him, held him responsible in absence for my mother's death all those years ago. But _this_? This was another thing entirely, a completely different level of unbelievability that even after weeks was still beyond my total comprehension.

Now here I am following in his footsteps with so many questions, seeking answers I may never find.

I have no clue what I'm doing. I've been in fights in my life, but I've never seriously harmed let alone killed another person. I'd never even held a gun until a few days ago, but now I stand in the middle of a crowded hallway waiting to put a bullet in the head of a man I've never met before.

And all for money that would never solve any of my problems. Is this what my father really was?

I don't want to be here, but the simple fact is that there isn't anywhere else I can go. There's nothing else left for me, all my alternative options are gone.

Any chance I'd ever had at a normal life was taken with mother to the seabed; that was a lesson I'd learned long ago.


End file.
